“Information about the Columbus Street Cannibals.”
They had rehearsed this well. They were dancing around the hearsay rule.
“What kind of information did Officer Miroballi say to you, after he had talked with the defendant each of those times? Can you be more specific?”
“Information on the Cannibals’ drug dealing. Places. Amounts. Future plans for drug purchases.”
“Did Officer Miroballi tell you the defendant’s name?”
“No.”
“Did Officer Miroballi, to your knowledge, register this confidential informant?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“Judge,” Shelly said, “now it’s Mr. Morphew making the assumption that my client was somehow a confidential informant.”
“Counsel.” The judge removed his glasses. “There has been more than enough foundation to demonstrate that the defendant had been supplying information about drug deals to Officer Miroballi.”
“There hasn’t been any,” she said quickly. The judge’s words had hurt badly, said as they were in the jury’s presence. She felt the heat come to her face. Her objection had gone south on her. Now the judge was placing his official stamp on the prosecution’s theory. “This is assumption stacked upon assumption.”
“You are overruled, Ms. Trotter. You’ve made your record and now we’re going to continue, if that’s all right with you.”
“We move for a mistrial, your Honor. This is unbelievably prejudicial and unfair.”
“That motion is denied. Mr. Morphew, proceed.”
Shelly took her seat. She didn’t know if she was angrier at the judge or herself.
“No,” Sanchez answered. “Ray didn’t register the defendant. Something like this-drugs and especially the Cannibals-people want to be sure of privacy. Ray, he didn’t even tell me his name. It’s, like, a trust thing.”
Morphew paused a moment. “All right, sir. Now let’s go back to what we were originally talking about. Seven-thirty, the night of February eleventh, 2004.”
“Okay. Ray said he wanted to go see his informant.”
“Did he say why?”
“He-y’know, like I said, he didn’t want to tell me too much. I think he was worried for me, too.”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“Go on, Officer Sanchez.”
“Ray, he didn’t say much detail or anything. He said to me, ‘I think this kid’s playing with me.’ He said-”
“Objection.”
“-‘I gotta get some answers from this kid.’”
“Goes to state of mind, Judge,” said Morphew. “Based on what the defense has pleaded pretrial, the state of mind of the officer is very much at issue.”
“No.” Shelly got to her feet. “No, it is not. His actions are relevant. My client’s state of mind is relevant. What was going through the officer’s head is absolutely not.”
“I don’t agree with that,” said the judge. “I’m going to allow it.”
“This is”-Shelly opened her arms-“this is simply wrong, Judge. This is entirely unfair. All of this so-called ‘state of mind’ evidence is entirely unreliable and inadmissible.”
The judge leaned forward on his elbows, staring at Shelly. “Counsel, the officer’s state of mind informs his actions. This is relevant testimony.”
“We are talking about an objective standard,” she said, referring, without using the words, to self-defense. “A reasonable-person standard from the standpoint of my client. Unless the officer was transferring his thoughts by telepathy to my client, his state of mind is of no relevance whatsoever.”
The judge didn’t seem to appreciate the sarcasm. “Over,” he said, “ruled.”
“Tell us again, Officer, since there was an interruption-”
“Ray said, ‘This kid is playing games with me. I gotta get some answers from this kid.’”
“He didn’t say anything about hurting that kid, did he?”
“No. Just talking. Getting some answers.”
“Okay.” Morphew looked at the jury. “Now, did you see the defendant when you got to the City Athletic Club?”
“Not at first. Then he came out. So we drove over to him.”
“Did your partner say anything else about the defendant?”
Sanchez nodded. “Ray told me he saw the defendant holding drugs.”
“Objection,” Shelly said. “Total and complete hearsay.”
“Goes to state of mind,” said the judge. “Overruled.”
“What happened next?”
“Ray radioed it in.”
“To whom?”
“Dispatch. Police dispatch.”
“Did you turn on your overhead lights?”
“Yeah, we did.”
“Go on, Officer.”
“Ray got out of the car. He started walking toward the defendant.”
“What did you do?”
“I got out, too. Walked over, too, but not as far as Ray. Not over to the defendant. Kept a distance. That’s what we do. So I can see the bigger picture.”
“What did Officer Miroballi do?”
“He walked over to the defendant.”
“And?”
“The defendant ran.”
“How did the two of you respond?”
“Ray ran after him. Told me to get back to the car.”
“Was that unusual, in your experience?”
“No, it was normal. Standard. One chases by foot, the other by car.”
“What happened next?”
“Ray, he”-the officer caught himself, paused, cleared his throat-“well, the defendant over there ran into an alley about ten, fifteen yards away. Turned and went down the alley.”
“And Officer Miroballi?”
Sanchez gestured, swatted the air. His eyes had filled.
“You need a moment, Officer?”
Sanchez took a deep breath, then finished the story with his exhale. “Ray chased him into the alley. Few seconds later, I heard a single gunshot. I’d barely had the chance to get the car going. I–I got there too late.” He licked his lips nervously, as a single tear streamed down his cheek.
Morphew waited a moment out of respect, and to allow the jury to absorb the sorrow. He was starting with the emotional aspect of the testimony, trying to win the jury early and then pile on corroboration.
“You drove to the alley?”
He shook his head. “I got out and went over there on foot. I–I found Ray.”
“He was dead.”
“That’s right.”
“Your Honor.” Morphew had moved to the defense table. “I’d rather not have to show the officer these exhibits. But if I could publish.” They were the death photos. They had already been ruled admissible, so Morphew didn’t need anyone to authenticate them.
“Certainly,” said the judge.
Morphew passed them around, one by one, and the jurors passed them, wincing and holding their breath. Using them now had a good effect, probably a better impact than with the medical examiner who would testify later. The prosecutor gave the jurors all the time, and more, that they needed to go through the grisly pictures. Then he collected them and entered them into evidence, without objection from Shelly.
“What did you do next, Officer? Can you describe the scene?”
Sanchez was looking over everyone’s heads, into his memory. “I held him. I just held him and prayed for him. I don’t remember the scene.”
“Of course. Did you see the defendant?”
He shook his head. “No. He had left by then.”
“That alley. It ran all the way through from Gentry Street to the next street to the east?”
“Yeah. You can run all the way through to the next street.”
“Other than your partner, of course, did you see anything else in that alley? Can you remember anything at all?”
“Yes.” Sanchez cleared his throat. “Yes. I saw some drugs-what looked like a couple of packets of drugs, and a gun, a ways down. To the east. In the direction he had run away.”
That was objectionable, but there was little denying that Alex-or Ronnie-had run through the alley.
“And what about Officer Miroballi’s gun?” Morphew asked.
“Holstered.”
“His weapon was in his holster when you found him dead?”
“Yes.”
Morphew flipped through his notes to make sure he had covered everything. Shelly had forced him to go out of order by her objections. Morphew had covered the confidential informant testimony before he had planned. Finally, after flipping pages back and forth, he looked up at the witness.